


To Whom Do These Bones Belong?

by waltzmatildah



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 04:16:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10779393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltzmatildah/pseuds/waltzmatildah
Summary: Alex POV. Season 7 AU. Prompt:You're going to be begging me by the end of the night.





	To Whom Do These Bones Belong?

A month before the due date of a baby that appears to belong to everybody but him, Arizona and Callie have a _thing_. Some kind of ceremony full of flowers and speeches and incessant _reminders_ of his own failings...

 _'Til death do us part_ , and all that crap.

 

 

*

 

 

Lexie arrives wearing not much more than half a red dress and shiny black stiletto shoe type things that she teeters around on. Spends most of the night draping herself over Avery and draining champagne flutes dry in true Grey style. When the dance music starts up and it's only her and April out there on the wooden square, gyrating against each other, he takes it as his cue to cut and run.

The night air presents as an ice wall when he steps through one half of the double glass doors and out onto the darkened balcony. Leans heavily over the ornate balustrade and conjures morbid images of what his insides would look like splattered seven stories below on the sidewalk. Has enough previous experience with the sight of his own blood to be fairly certain about it all.

“Planning on jumping?”

The words startle him but practise means he manages not to react. Huffs out a muffled _you wish_ before lazily lifting his head, smirk firmly in place. “Avery looks like he's made himself comfortable.”

Knows his statement says as much about him as it does about Sloan but can't bring himself to care. Loosened as he is by too much expensive booze and not nearly enough weird looking designer food.

Something about pheasant and dill and yeah. He'll order a pizza later.

Mark shrugs and the red wine in his glass dances over the rim. “It's all part of the plan, Karev. All part of the plan...”

He snorts because he's heard enough of the plan whispered along hallways and laughed about over heaped spoon-fulls of breakfast cereal to know that anything Mark Sloan _planned_ has well and truly come off the rails.

“You know, his room's right next to mine. I'm pretty sure whatever it was they were doing in there last night was not a part of your _plan_.” Air quotes around the last word for extra punch.

In his hurry to escape he didn't think to detour via the bar and he's suddenly regretting the move. Shoves his hands down deep into his pockets for want of anything better to do with them.

“Whatever. The eyes and the smile and the ass will only get him so far... pretty boy. She'll figure it out soon enough.”

“What? Figure out that playing step-mom to someone else's kid is a better option than swanning about with Harper Avery's grandson? Yeah, sure...”

“Says you.”

“Says me, what?”

They both know what. The words sit at their feet, carefully stepped around and ignored.

 

 

*

 

 

“Is this thing passed the point where I can leave without looking like an ass?”

“Like that's ever been a priority for you.”

“True.” He shrugs, nods his head. Can't quite fathom why appearances suddenly mean so much to him. “In that case...”

 

 

*

 

 

A hand closes around his bicep. It's been there before and the memory it conjures is swift and sets his insides on a slow spin. Scotch and whiskey and maybe a little gin somewhere along the line...

“You like football?”

He snorts like the noise is all the answer he needs to give. Tacks on a hesitant _why_ out of habit.

“Seahawks, 49ers replay starts in about an hour and I have a three dee television I don't think I've ever used,” Mark seems to halt himself then, catches up with the words that are tumbling off his tongue, “If you're interested.”

“You got beer?”

This time it's Sloan's turn to snort.

 

 

*

 

 

Ask him later and he'll tell you the Seahawks won by seven points but he'll only know that because the weekend paper tells him so.

“You got much of a scar?”

A _non sequitur_ if ever there was one.

He tugs his dress shirt out of his pants and pulls it up towards his armpits before he can process the movement. Cool fingertips beat his own to the series of raised bumps along his ribcage. He stares at them blankly for seconds, hours, days.

“Crap.” Whispered. He's not sure if by him or by Mark.

“We thought you were dead, y'know?”

He nods because he does. He nods because _he_ thought he was dead.

“Crap.” Definitely not him this time as fingers bounce along the ruined skin. Branded as he is by four permanent reminders. “So much goddamn blood. I thought you were dead.”

Later he'll think the change in reference point was telling.

 

 

*

 

 

The sofa is leather and it creaks as his weight is pressed heavily against one arm. The fingers that so lightly traced the scar tissue across his ribs morph as they dig sharply into the flesh above his hips. Pull insistently at clothing that won't seem to give as willingly as requested.

He thinks he should protest. Doesn't and can't quite reconcile why.

Why not.

Figures that's all the answer he could ever need right there.


End file.
